Curiosity
by manic-intent
Summary: Fiction centered around Altair's encounters with Maximilian, King Richard's spymaster. Spoilers for the game. Altair x OMC.
1. Curiosity

**Title:** Curiosity  
**Fandom: **Assassin's Creed  
**Pairing:** Altaïr/OMC  
**A/N:** Frankly I think this would have been an automatic attempt by any curious male plugged into an ancestor's memory in a supercomputer. XD  
**Rating:** NC17

Curiosity

He had been kidnapped by a crazy old man and a possibly equally crazy girl and forced to relive some weird assassin ancestor's memory through a glass and metal machine that smelled persistently of lemon. Oh, and he was very unlikely to survive the experience.

In the circumstances, Desmond decided that he was more than due a little curiosity, and so he snuck out of his room in the middle of the night and gingerly lay down on the Animus.

[_Loading Memories_

"Uh. Can you load any memories other than these, er, threads?"

[_Affirmative. Please specify, User._

"Since I'm his descendant he probably had a girl from somewhere, or somebody, anyway."

[_Affirmative. Stable memory blocks available. Please specify, User._

"Um." Desmond felt that he was not morbid enough to watch his next ancestor's conception and flailed mentally for a moment at the potential wrongness of what he was doing. "Latest, please. Before the current accessed memory blocks." _Damnit_.

[_Loading memory block: Latest relationship: specifics: sexual._

"Thanks," Desmond muttered, under the glass. That had all the erotic quality of a cold bucket of water, but then his mind _shifted_ into the scrolling blue.

--

Altaïr woke like an assassin, enmeshed in habits too old to forget. First he registered the pain, then transcended it. The broken rib was from the mailed foot that had crashed into his side when he was down. The bruise on his face from the fist that had pushed past his guard; the ache in his shoulder from a stab. He had been careless, and that galled him more than the pain. He was the _best_. Should have been. An armed guard of five in a convoy with the target should not have been a problem.

He kept his breathing even in a semblance of sleep as he considered this. How had he survived? There had been a blade, descending for his neck, a ring of metal as someone else had blocked it, a dry chuckle and the faint whinny of a horse.

Altaïr pulled himself further into the memory. He had seen the approach of a knight in his peripheral vision, a lone man on a black charger with battle-worn platemail but no surcoat, but had been concentrating on the target's guard, given the knight had seemed little interested in what was happening, reining up his steed to watch instead of aiding either.

Then he had been aided, it seemed, before fainting.

The room smelled of salve and he was dressed in breeches, his weapons divested. The sheets he lay on were of fine cotton. Cautiously, Altaïr opened his eyes, and bit down a hiss of surprise.

It was a small room with an arrow-slit of a window, a dressing table with a metal basin filled with water and a heavy wardrobe. Leaning against that was the knight, who grinned at his confusion.

Altaïr was _sure_ he had sensed no one else in the room. Warily, he tried to sit up, winced at the pain, and stayed put instead. "Who are you?"

"Maximilian. You have slept quite a while. Feeling better?" The knight seemed amused when Altaïr showed no sign of recognition. On closer inspection, the man had russet-brown hair, almost red, trimmed short, like his beard and sideburns. His handsome face was crinkled into an easy smile, but Altaïr knew better than to take that at face value. Under his brow his black eyes were cold, with a cunning, edged wisdom that the assassin had last seen only in Al Mualim. This man was a commander, but Altaïr had never heard of him.

A quick study of his clothes showed no other clues. The man was burned almost brown by the hot sun, showing that he was likely resident in the Holy Land, but his clothes were simple, well made but without adornment. His voice was controlled and pleasant, with the unthinking attention to nuance and pitch that again spoke of command, and his Arabic had almost no trace of an accent at all.

"Are you of the Lion or a Templar?"

"Does it matter?"

Altaïr narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, and the knight raised his large hands in a gesture of mocking surrender and chuckled. "I am not a Templar, and that you should have already guessed, Altaïr, for you are still alive."

"If you know my name then you must know who I am. Why am I still alive?"

"Curiosity."

"You will find that I will not break under torture."

"And no doubt you would have also divined that torture was not my intention." The knight countered. "Or you would have woken up in far different circumstances."

"Then why?"

"I have heard tell that your blade is the fastest in the Holy Land. I would like to test its edge against mine." Maximilian grinned, and though Altaïr studied him carefully he could find no mistruth in his expression, save perhaps the calculation in those cold black eyes.

"If that is all you desire then you have saved my life." Altaïr said, warily, making his distrust evident. "I will remember that when we fight."

"You are confident."

"So are you."

Maximilian inclined his head. "Rest and recover your strength. Do try not to escape until after we duel. This tower is hidden well, and my archers, better still."

--

He was confined to the bedroom. While bedridden, he was aided by a series of somber, silent servants. Once he could walk again, food was passed through a hatch in the door, with a lower hatch for the chamberpot and a change of water for the basin, and often a slice of hard, aromatic soap. Altaïr stared through the window, which had a view of a courtyard and a fortified wall, then an expanse of rocky ground that had little cover to speak of. Were he to somehow get out of the castle on foot, he would be shot down quickly.

Maximilian visited occasionally, usually to speak of bladework or matters foreign to the Holy Land, to which Altaïr gave carefully neutral responses. He was more prisoner here than guest, and he very much doubted that the knight wished merely to keep him for a duel.

Now very curious himself, Altaïr reacted one day in the middle of discussing political matters in the Christian Bible with Maximilian by aiming a jab at the man's neck. Maximilian blocked, caught Altaïr's left hand as it swung round in a punch, then deftly slapped away the next jab, dodging back as the assassin snapped up his knee, catching his ankle and dragging it up. Altaïr lost balance onto the bed with a surprised grunt, kicking out sharply, but found himself quickly pinned, his arm twisted behind his back and his still-throbbing ribs protesting sharply.

"Finished?" Maximilian inquired, his head cocked.

"You are no knight."

"You will insult a man in his own castle?" The amusement was still there.

"I know what I felt was wrong with you now. The way you wore the armor, when I first saw you, it was battle-worn but it settled poorly on your shoulders. You are not used to armor, nor broadswords. The calluses on your hands speak to me of lighter blades, and you are too quick for someone used to platemail."

"Very good," Maximilian said, with a wolfish grin. "Anything else?"

"I will need to recover fully before chancing your blade." Altaïr said, matter-of-fact. "Who _are_ you?"

"What do you call someone of skill in defending himself but is yet unknown?"

"A spy, or an assassin." Altaïr had known this the moment Maximilian had blocked his second punch. "Perhaps both. You remind me of my Master. You are used to command. The Lion must be pleased to have you by his side."

"Ah, a lucky man, to have you call him Master," Maximilian grinned again, evidently ignoring the comment about Richard, but there was something lazy in his smile, now, that made Altaïr suppress a shiver. The words were absolutely innocent, or could be. Somehow, he very much doubted that.

"I will not betray-"

"If I thought you so easy I would have killed you already." The lazy smile widened. Altaïr hesitated. He had been told that he was handsome, but it had been a detail about himself that had never quite interested him, nor had he ever used it to solve his problems. Furthermore, he had never… with a man, and he was _fairly_ sure that the Christians' Holy Book condemned the act (though he had heard different interpretations of the particular passage in question, and he had certainly heard rumors about Richard himself). While he considered this, Maximilian brushed a kiss over his bared shoulder, his beard tickling Altaïr's skin.

Altaïr yelped, and nearly broke his own arm, twisting back to see that the 'knight' had shifted back on his haunches, looking amused. "Closest I will get, I should think. And well worth it." Carefully, as though releasing a wild animal, Maximilian backed off the bed, and then let his arm go. Altaïr sat up, massaging his wrist as the other man chuckled. "You look like a frightened cat. Rest assured, I have no designs on your person without leave. A spy or an assassin I may be, but that does not mean I lack for honor."

Altaïr considered this slowly, then forced himself to relax. "You have leave."

"Feh. You have a woman and a child. I accept only leave that is freely given."

"I _had_ a woman and a child," Altaïr corrected, disconcerted. He had been so sure that he had hidden… but no matter. "And the leave is freely given."

Maximilian was silent, looking skeptical, but Altaïr could tell the man was tempted. A little painfully, he slipped to his feet. One stride, and he was pressed against the 'knight', leaning up for a clumsy kiss. The next was fumbled, then hard fingers pressed against his skull, and the next was bruising, a man's kiss, with no tenderness, only raw hunger. Dimly, Altaïr was aware of an arm crushing his slender form to Maximilian's bulkier frame, of stumbling back together on the narrow bed and an uttered curse against his neck in French; his legs spreading and crossing against the small of the knight's back and his teeth closing of their accord over the other man's ear.

Maximilian growled, and Altaïr responded by biting his shoulder as the other man all but yanked off his breeches, settling between his thighs and running his callused hands with care over his scarred flanks, marked with stories: there, a thin white line, where a Teutonic knight had once gotten through his guard; there, a still-healing set of scar tissue against his thigh, where an archer had been lucky.

Maximilian snorted as Altaïr bit him again, next to the fresh, red mark. "Do you make love to your woman like this?"

"We are not making love, and you are not a woman," Altaïr pointed out, watching as Maximilian shrugged out of his clothes, dumping them off the bed, and reaching for the salve on the dresser.

"Point taken." Only amusement. Still, Altaïr had been expecting roughness after a comment like that, and was surprised again, as fingers closed carefully over him, stroked, made him gasp, turn his cheek against the pillow, and gasp again as a finger breached him. He flinched and tightened his fists on the sheets at the second, though there was only a little hurt, trying to focus on the kisses pressed against his neck and his cheeks.

"I can stop if you want me to," Maximilian observed, and Altaïr realized his eyes had been tightly shut.

"No, no," he said quickly, looking up. "It is just… new."

"There will be pain," Maximilian said, and Altaïr hissed as the fingers pressed deeper, wanted to say something trite about pain and constant companions, but arched convulsively and groaned instead, as crooking fingers rubbed against _something_ within him.

The man was _smirking_ at his palpable astonishment, bending down to kiss away his question, stroking pleasure into his veins, both within and without, whispering soothingly as the third finger _burned_.

The light was graying fast when that slowly soothed, when his breathing evened, and Altaïr sank his teeth harder into the other shoulder as soiled fingers withdrew, flexed into the pillow next to his cheek, and he was entered, slowly and carefully, _stretched_, his hands clawed into Maximilian's back and his heels locked over each other. The 'knight' was gasping something in English, then French, then something decidedly filthy in Arabic that Altaïr could barely catch, then a choked "God _damn_ it, relax, you're too _tight_" that he obeyed, with as much discipline as he could exert.

"I should have had you on your knees," Maximilian finally said, his voice strained, when buried. "It would not have… hurt so much for you."

"This is better," Altaïr said, in a low voice, surprised by his honesty. He had almost drawn blood, and he opened his mouth for a kiss. The burn faded quickly, and Maximilian began to move, rocking against him, his fingers between them in long, easy strokes, darkening against his skin as the light faded. It was better. Soon even the night's sounds dimmed for their notes of pleasure.

--

Swords had hit an impasse and they were now on daggers of blunted, weighted wood, their edges coated with chalk. White lines scored their skin and their breeches, none 'fatal'. Altaïr loved the lightning whirl of dagger combat, fast and frenetic and dancing, and his opponent fought like a panther, fierce and quick and brutal. With metal they would now both be blooded.

Still, it was a good counter that gave Altaïr the day: he stamped down on Maximilian's foot as he dodged a slice for his neck, used the momentary distraction to slice a white line up the other man's breeches and over his belly, to his neck. Maximilian stepped back with a laugh that was echoed by the archers watching on the battlements.

"I concede that yours is the better blade," Maximilian said, laughter in his cold eyes and his handsome smile. "We should retire for some refreshment."

Altaïr passed the practice dagger to the servant, wiping the chalk dust off his face as he followed Maximilian toward the tower. Once within, however, instead of heading for the dining hall, the assassin found himself dragged sharply towards the servant's door, down through a narrow passage, through a suspiciously empty kitchen and out through the servant's entrance, where a horse stood placidly, harnessed to a wagon with a large cloth draped over crates and barrels. A man sat hunched at the driver's seat, looking stolidly ahead.

"Your gear is in there," Maximilian said, jerking his thumb at the cloth. "What is it you assassins say? Safety and peace upon you?"

"Safety and peace," Altaïr echoed, confused, even as the other man pressed a chaste kiss on his lips. "I do not understand."

"I wager that you may be useful, in the future," Maximilian shrugged, his smile now enigmatic. "But you have already been of aid to me, and like yourself, I do not kill useful men for no reason. Now, I do apologize for the necessity of this, but…"

Altaïr did not dodge the punch.

--

He woke up in the middle of the day in the shadow of a cliff face, and dressed hurriedly in his gear before pulling himself out of the wagon. His jaw ached, and the driver was nowhere to be seen, nor the horse. Still, the outline of the visible coast told him that he was near Acre, and he knew the way home.

Later, Al Mualim looked askance at his bruises without comment, but seemed puzzled when he apologized for failing his mission. "The target is dead, Altaïr. Perhaps the blow to your head addled your mind."

"Dead?"

"A clean blade cut through his heart, so reports have told me."

"Ah." Altaïr concentrated. "He was smuggling weapons for Saladin, from beyond the sea. Strange weapons, that smelled sharp, that looked like thick metal rods."

"Looters must have stolen those when you left. No matter. They will be recovered."

"I see," Altaïr said, and had no doubt that the weapons would not be. _Useful_.

"You smile, Altaïr?"

"It was a long journey, Master, and perhaps I have not yet fully recovered. I think I should rest."

"Safety and peace."

--

Desmond woke with a start from the Animus, made a run for the sink in the bathroom attached to his room, and swore to himself never, _never_, to do something like that again.

-fin-


	2. Hunting Eagles

New Year:D Happy New Year's, everyone!

**Title:** Hunting Eagles

**Fandom:** Assassin's Creed

**Pairing:** Altaïr x OMC

**Rating:** NC17

**A/N:** I'm fond of Maximilian. :3

Maximilian's house, set so close to the port of Acre, somehow managed to smell persistently of sandalwood instead of fish and human refuse. The heat of the afternoon sun was only partially shuttered out by the heavy curtains; the noise of the street half drowned in folds of cloth. He could make out the distant shouts of hawkers at their stalls, the shrill cries of beggars, and susurrus murmur of street level conversation.

The walls were rough under his palms, and Altaïr was sweating under his clothes, his teeth bared, a tongue wet against his ear, his hood folded against his back. Maximilian grunted, behind him, _shifted_, and began to move again, slow and maddening and _deep_, Altaïr's flesh between his legs held in a pleasant prison within hot, slick fingers, an arm wrapped around his waist that bent him back against the spymaster.

The clamor of alarm bells had long faded, and yet Maximilian was taking his time, mouthing at his neck, wet and teasing; his body was numbingly hot, the room stifling, his labored breathing in heavy pants as he curled fingers into claws against the wall, braced himself, the folds of his breeches uncomfortable against his knees, and _bucked_. Maximilian growled, deep and liquid like an animal, and rolled his hips, deliciously harder, making him moan, breathless.

Altaïr knew he was due back in Acre's Bureau hours ago, but under the other man's skilled attentions that had already long become as abstract as his instinctive questions; all he could concentrate on was moving against Maximilian's rhythm, trying to force it, _learning_. If he moved sharply, pushed back, Maximilian would hiss; if he clenched, there was that rumbling sound that was so much like a purr, a growl; if he whispered the other man's name, there would be a breathy snarl. Altaïr had never felt so much pleasure.

Still, the shreds of his discipline kicked his mouth into obeisance, as much as the rest of his body was by now quite beyond his control. "Max… Maximilian. I have to go."

"What, when you are like this?" Maximilian grinned against his neck, slow and lazy, and tugged lightly at swollen flesh, making him shiver and thrust desperately into the fading pressure.

Altaïr considered protesting, but (and this despite the opinion of some of his compatriots, and certainly his late Master) the assassin was actually quite intelligent, and could guess that any further complaints about the pace would merely slow it further.

Instead, he took a shuddering breath, pitched his voice lower, rougher, and said, "What am I supposed to say to… to have you take me harder?"

"Merely that," Maximilian growled, next to his ear, and snapped his hips forward. Altaïr listened to breaths and moans and fleshy slaps, closed his eyes, sank his teeth into his arm to mute his cries, as his body began to sing.

--

He made his report first thing in the morning, slipped out as the sun began its slow ascent. Maximilian had but yawned and turned over in the bed when he had completed his absolutions, but had grinned and sat up, later, when he returned, somewhat irritated with himself for doing so. Richard's spymaster for the Holy Land was handsome even in dishabille, his short russet hair tousled, scratching at his trimmed beard, the sun having baked his skin bronze even past his broad shoulders.

Maximilian beckoned, with an inviting smile, but Altaïr sat stubbornly at the corner of the bed and folded his arms. He still ached from last night's shared intimacies, but it was pleasant. He didn't want to know if _that_ was why his feet had brought him back to the sandalwood-scented house.

"What is your business in Acre?"

"Technically Acre belongs to the Lion," Maximilian pointed out, settling against the headboard. "My business in Acre happens to be legitimate, unlike yours."

"You seem little inclined to turn me in to the guards."

"Your target was a slaver who owned half the pleasure houses in Acre, and men sometimes speak matters to whores that are best left unsaid. Your silencing him took a little weight off my mind. Besides, I am sure that the last night would have been far less enjoyable for the both of us were you consigned to a cell than to my bed."

Altaïr glared at the spymaster, who smirked, and drawled, "Though I admit to having some issue with your 'Creed'. You assassins have a quaint notion of innocence and guilt."

"We investigate each target before acting." Altaïr said, a little more coldly than he had intended. He was the best of his kind, and he remained somewhat unnerved (and yes, annoyed) that both King Richard and his spymaster continued to view him as a moral curiosity rather than anyone _dangerous_. "We do not harm innocents."

"No man is innocent. And besides, how would you then see the guards? Many guards and soldiers enter their occupation for the sake of coin for their family. Does that make them any different from the merchant on the street?"

"If they raise their blade against mine-"

"Do they always do so first? Or do you kill some simply because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time? Assassins oft kill the archers on the towers and the battlements before stalking their targets, after all. Preparation is everything." Maximilian's smile was now chilling. "Do not take this as criticism, merely as my personal curiosity."

"Then by what reason do you kill? Do you blindly follow your master's orders?"

"Of course not. King Richard appreciates criticism from his spymaster. And as far as I can tell, he does nothing without a reason." Maximilian leant forward as Altaïr looked away, biting absently at his lip, and carefully put a hand on the assassin's thigh. "You are a good man. That surprised my King."

Altaïr blinked at him. "It did?"

"Enough that he did not kill you on the spot for butchering your way into his camp," Maximilian said dryly. "Men with a good heart amuse him greatly. He told me as such afterwards, when he called me to his side and bade me and mine leave Masyaf alone."

Altaïr narrowed his eyes.

"I merely felt that, with its leader dead and many of its men scattered or confused, it would be a fine opportunity." Maximilian continued, unconcerned. "But my King was of the opposite opinion. Though if you were to ask me truly I would think my poor King far more interested in war than in governance, and that where possible he is happy to spare anyone with a pretty face. So we are to observe. I did think you would become Master, though."

"I did not think myself suitable," Altaïr said stiffly, ignoring the underhand compliment. Perhaps they had been infiltrated. He would have to find out.

"Men who do not think themselves suitable _are_ often the most suitable," Maximilian's stroking hands had wandered up to his cheek. "But I confess myself pleased. Were you left to govern at Masyaf… breaking into your little fort simply to meet you may be beyond my capabilities."

"So you came to Acre to observe?" Altaïr noticed that speaking to Maximilian was often difficult. The man changed subjects so smoothly and quickly that it was often several conversations after that one even realized his original question was still unanswered.

"Certainly. I heard that you were about."

"King Richard-"

"Has, as you have no doubt observed, a rather loose interest in governance." The hand pushed back his hood, the thumb tracing his ear.

"He also seemed to have little interest in the Piece of Eden," Altaïr said, watching Maximilian carefully. Richard the Lionheart had been more curious about Altaïr's notion of morality and his reason for living the way he did than in Robert de Sable's dying ramblings.

"My King has no use for superstition," Maximilian said easily, and in those cold eyes Altaïr read ironic amusement. "And if he has no use for it then neither have I. Keep it safe, or destroy it, I have no interest in what you have chosen."

"Some would call that a shallow choice, for a spymaster."

"The Sword of Excalibur. The Holy Grail. Pieces of Eden. The Ark. The world is full of superstitious artifacts, Altaïr. But my King charges me to watch the world of men and feed him information about their movements."

"A Piece of Eden would make King Richard victorious in any war."

"Would it? You certainly killed its last bearer easily enough." Maximilian grinned, tracing his jaw. "King Richard has little interest in 'magic', and besides, what use is an artifact that would end all wars to a warrior-King? He has no interest in such methods of control. Nor have you, I see."

"So you would have me believe that you care not what happens to the Piece."

"Aye. I give you my word that other than professional concerns, my only interest in Masyaf's assassins regards your immediate whereabouts and schedule at any point in time." Maximilian favored Altaïr with a searching, lascivious stare that made the assassin cough hurriedly and instinctively cross his legs.

"I am expected in Masyaf."

"So it would seem," Maximilian said agreeably, and pounced.

-fin-

**Title:** Sales

**Fandom:** Final Fantasy XII, Final Fantasy Tactics

**Pairing:** Basch x Balthier, Zalbaag x Balthier

**Rating:** NC17

**A/N:** This was actually kupoke's dream, strangely enough.


	3. The Lattice of Heaven

[A/N: Little bit of clarity: 'Negative' memory blocks start from before the game. Also, on replaying the game, I realized how little attention I actually paid the Desmond segments. So yes, like the game, I am pretending that all the characters have been 'modernised' in speech. I can, however, read Chaucer. XD; If very slowly.

March 09 Beyond your reach

The lattice of Heaven

memory block -10395

The earliest memory he had of his childhood was that of drowning, of the growing sluggish weightlessness of his arms and the choking wet in his throat, his eyes fixed up toward Heaven, and it was beautiful, a lattice of gold light that shimmered and blinded; dark hands shattered it into froth and closed under his shoulders, _hurt_, dragged him up, up towards life. Altaïr no longer remembered _why_, or how, only _who_. Al Mualim walked straighter in those days.

memory block -3294

He was not surprised when _she_ told him she was leaving, leaving Masyaf, leaving the Creed, leaving _him_. Their son was a year close to initiation, and he _will_ be initiated, being the son of Altaïr, and she was frightened: she showed it in the shortness of her temper, and he could almost scent the rankness of her fear. He did not tell her that, of course; he but nodded and gave her a string of names, the few men he knew outside the Order, gave her what money he had and what blessing she would accept. The man in him she had loved, even with his arrogance and moods and selfishness, but she could never bring herself even to accept the assassin, and with that he had once thought himself lucky.

memory block.-23

Waking up in the sandalwood room no longer confused Altaïr, even when he had no recollection of actually going there in the first place. Old habit meant that waking up naked, however, always shot him too quickly to awareness; waking up with _company_ made the assassin would make him sit up sharply. His first breath rattled into abused lungs, and he coughed, wet and hacking, and the displaced, warm weight beside him muttered a French curse into the pillows and yawned.

French. Sandalwood. Altaïr cross-referenced _Acre_, mission, King Richard's spymaster Maximilian, naked in bed, and the lack of any scent of sin, and drew a blank. He groaned, coughing, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and beside him, Maximilian burrowed a little further against the pillow, murmured something again in a husky voice, and curled up against his hip, draping an arm over Altaïr's thighs, dusted in the same reddish auburn as his short disheveled hair.

"Maximilian."

"Aye."

"_Why_ am I here?"

The spymaster's compact body shook briefly in silent laughter. Irritably, Altaïr pushed at the offending arm, but it stayed firmly put. "_Maximilian_."

"I suppose you are wondering why we have not fu-"

"I was _not_," Altaïr cut into Maximilian's sleep-slur sharply, twisting around, caught the faint ghost of a smirk against the small of his back as he was baited. The brief crescent: that he remembered, someplace, above him, indistinct under… the water… _oh_. Altaïr looked away, as he _recalled_, and felt Maximilian shake against him again, even as the bristle of an unshaven chin and the faint roughness of chapped lips began to mark a slow, wet path up his spine. Teeth closed over the pressure point just under and left of the nape of his neck, and even as Altaïr growled he arched up into the sting, but caught the spymaster's wrist swiftly before it slipped under the sheets.

He felt the pout against his skin. "Even after I went through all that trouble to fish you out of the dock?"

Altaïr was silent, still mortified. The accident had been a moment of remarkable (and, he would stress, _rare_) idiocy: pushing through a crowd to approach a mark at the docks, his eyes fixed on the tempting pouch on the mark's hip, he hadn't seen the drunk man, blindsided, shoved, and had lost his balance and fallen into the sea.

Still, seeking out that one drunken man to end his sorry wine-sodden life simply for the blow to his pride was far too much a travesty of the Creed even for one as Altaïr himself, who only took it as a guideline. He had to return to the mission, find the smuggler, discern his crimes, and discover a way to end his life. Right. So decided, Altaïr firmly pinned the spymaster's questing hands to the sheets and tried to ignore the way Maximilian was unhurriedly marking his back with bites. "Where did you put my clothes?"

"You fell into Acre harbor," Maximilian reminded him dryly. "I shudder to remember what you smelled like when rescued. Your clothes are still being washed." There was a slyness to his tone which hinted at who had washed Altaïr himself, and he found his cheeks turning hot in a way that had little to do with the warmth of the room. "I was surprised to learn that the infamous Altaïr of Masyaf could not swim."

Altaïr ignored the jibe. "If you would lend me a tunic and breeches, return my weapons, I would-"

"_If_," Maximilian pointed out, and this playfully. Altaïr was quickly reminded, suppressing his body's imprinted memory of previous pleasantries spent in the sandalwood room and its immediate resultant shiver, as the bearded chin rested against his shoulder, of Maximilian's coiled strength; a panther draped across his back… a panther who called the lion _master_, Altaïr told himself sharply. Their accident of meeting and the inadvisable curiosity of their affairs made him no less an enemy.

Not that he had ever been able to convince himself of _that_ particular narrative. Altaïr hated being careless, disliked the absolute illogic of _allowing_ this man to bed him, however infrequently, and most of all, disliked not knowing _why_ that seemed to be the spymaster's sole interest in the assassins of Masyaf. It was almost insulting. It was-

"There," Maximilian observed, "Is no need to sulk." Under Altaïr's glare, he amended, with _that_ impish grin that never reached his cold eyes, "And you have no sense of humor. _Also_," he hastened to add, when Altaïr's lips thinned, "Are you sure you have quite recovered from imbibing such a large quantity of the harbor water?"

"I feel fine," Altaïr growled, jerking away as Maximilian nuzzled his neck, nibbling. "Clothes."

"Your singularity of focus continues to shame me," Maximilian grinned.

"You are wasting my time."

"Come now, beloved," and under those calculating, dispassionate eyes the endearment was purely ironic, "Your 'white feather', William du Clermont, is unlikely to leave Acre for at least a week, for his ship has been detained under administrative error. I do so enjoy all the protests he makes at the harbor offices."

Altaïr had not known that. He _had_, however, had been in the middle of an investigation, and he held some pride at least that he would have come to this tidbit in a more dignified manner. "How did you-"

"Sometimes 'tis difficult, but I do always try to keep an eye on you and Masyaf." This in a low purr, and hands, despite his best efforts, crept inexorably closer to his thighs. "If you _did_ wish to be fully inconspicuous you would not wear your weapons so openly, or the red sash over your rump." Altaïr inhaled sharply as Maximilian shifted behind him to rub thickening flesh against his cleft, shivered as he felt himself stir.

"_After_ the mission," Altaïr tried a compromise.

"Why?" Maximilian's tone was husky, inviting, and Altaïr had to grit his teeth.

"Because it hinders-"

"Too rough?" And this said_ so_ slyly.

Altaïr refused to answer, turning to snarl at the spymaster, who twisted away, grinning, having evidently waited for this moment, jerking his wrists free and pushing the slighter man down against the pillows, dodging the jerk of his knee and straddling Altaïr's hips as the assassin bucked, furious. And stopped instantly once he realized this seemed to add only to Maximilian's pleasure and amusement, the thickened prick now heavy against his. Maximilian smirked, once he dragged his eyes away, rolling hips shallowly to rub their flesh together, and Altaïr had to look away, upwards, fighting to keep his breathing even. _Bastard_.

And he could not deny that he _wanted_, as inadvisable as this was, but Altaïr _knew_ he did not want the dubious pleasure of limping for the rest of his stay in Acre. At the very least, it would be somewhat difficult to explain were the informants or the bureau chief to _ask_. "After… after the mission." Altaïr bit down on a moan, as Maximilian's rough hand closed over them both, _squeezed_. "You can have me however you want."

"Within reason," he added hastily, when the spymaster stopped, cocking his head.

"However I want."

"Within _reason_. And," Altaïr continued, deciding to at least get _something_ out of this encounter, "In exchange for any useful information you have on William du Clermont."

"I have you naked beneath me on my bed and still you bargain," Maximilian observed, though his grin was wolfish, now, and for a moment Altaïr thought the spymaster would simply ignore the offer and press his advantage, as those cold eyes slid downwards, unhurried and lascivious and thoughtful, then back up again; then Maximilian relaxed, rocking back on his haunches. Altaïr let out the breath he held. "Very well."

memory block.16

What Altaïr loved was _this_, the pure athletic freedom a honed body allowed over the rooftops, as he leapt from planking to the grille of a closed balcony, felt the wood bite into his fingers as he absorbed his weight and dug his feet over the rail, hauled himself effortlessly up onto sandstone to run and leap again, into space, his robes outstretched behind him.

It was, if he looked deep within himself, likely the main reason why he had refused to take Al Mualim's position as leader of Masyaf. Outside, he had this solitary freedom; this make-seem of flight, which being caged in the library behind an ornate desk would deny him. He did not wish to turn _into_ Al Mualim, an old man crippled with age who had to walk with the slow grace of the elderly, the only part of him still active his mind.

A soft-footed run, pacing himself, past a roof garden and over a dome, pushing away from the shaped stone into a jump to take him neatly onto an arch, another leap to the safety of a roof, up a strut, to a set of wavering planks, and another leap, out over a crowded street, to a grilled window of the fortified barracks. Altaïr reached up for the mosaic tile, dug his fingers onto the tiny ledge it provided, hauled himself up for the cornice. He pulled himself up familiar tiles and window slits, the wind dragging at his hood and the blade at his hip, as he climbed up the watchtower to the vantage point above.

There was an unlucky guard at the top, leaning with his back facing him, smoking tobacco, and Altaïr pulled himself noiselessly over the battlements, locked his wrist to draw the hidden blade, and pounced. At the last moment, the guard whirled, grabbed his wrist, set a palm on his shoulder and _shoved_, sent him sprawling. Altaïr rolled to his feet, his dagger drawn; teeth bared in a silent snarl, and hesitated.

"_You!_"

Maximilian took a final puff of his pipe before knocking out the ashes, blowing a smoke ring in his direction and grinning. "Altaïr."

"What are you doing in _Jerusalem_?"

Maximilian shrugged. "I have business."

"Spying?"

"Information _gathering_," Maximilian corrected, though he sketched an ironic bow. The spymaster was dressed like a merchant, on closer inspection, if heavily cowled, and seemingly unarmed. Gloves served also to hide the shade of his skin.

"Are you following me?"

"I am observing the guard changes," Maximilian said, with a jerk of his head at the roof far below them.

"Surely you could have sent another." Jerusalem was occupied still by Saladin's men. Were Maximilian caught, the color of his skin and his hair would have been enough reason for execution.

"So I could," Maximilian echoed, in that annoying way of his, as though he were _humoring_ Altaïr and yet revealing nothing whatsoever of his schemes.

"And your King has forsworn the invasion of Jerusalem."

"So he has." That damned irritating _smirk_. "Thanks to you, I hear."

As with so many conversations attempting to extract information from Maximilian, this was going nowhere and indeed getting personal. Altaïr took a breath for inner calm, and decided to ignore the spymaster, setting his hands on the sun-warmed stone and surveying the city, committing its detail to memory. An informant, to his left, sixty-four paces; someone spouting rhetoric before a growing crowd, before him, a hundred and twenty paces… and he stiffened, as a hand splayed on his lower back and began to creep downwards. He slapped it away, with a warning glare.

Maximilian grinned, unperturbed, crowding him against the battlements, palms set to either side of his waist. Altaïr's eyes narrowed, and he drew his hidden blade in a slither of steel, set the edge to the spymaster's throat. "Your play becomes unwelcome."

"So cold, beloved," Maximilian said, in a tone of mock reproach, but did not move. "I never did take my due." At Altaïr's arched eyebrow, he smiled lazily. "Acre. The docks. Your ill-fated impromptu swimming lesson."

_Oh_. Altaïr colored a little, under his hood. The white feather William du Clermont had said a curious string of words when he had died, gargled out as his throat filled with blood, about buried treasures being uncovered by Templars, by _Robert de Sablé_, and Altaïr had hastened back to the bureau, whose chief had told him to away quickly to Masyaf. In all the excitement he had forgotten about words spoken hastily in attempts to escape. "I had thought you would have forgotten. You have said nothing of it since."

"We have met now and then in times past, that much is true," Maximilian agreed. "But there was neither time nor place in those encounters, delightful as they were."

"And you think there time and place _now_?" Altaïr asked incredulously. They were on a tower of a military _barracks_, in a city hostile to men of the color of Maximilian's skin. "Within reason, I had said."

"The guards change every two hours below, but none should come up the tower save at dusk and at dawn."

A terrible suspicion struck. "Maximilian, do not tell me that you were observing the guard change to-"

"Hardly, though opportunity does beckon." Maximilian grinned, leaning forward, brushing a kiss on Altaïr's lips, chuckling as the assassin _bit_, reaching between them to cup his groin, purred when Altaïr choked down a moan; the blade he held against the spymaster's throat faltered. He opened his mouth to voice protest and found the words smothered by a deeper, more insistent kiss, a tongue seeking his, and he pressed helplessly into the intimacy, _wanting_-

The creak of the trapdoor behind them was sharp even over the whistle of the breeze. A guard pulled himself out, stared at them in pure shock as Maximilian drew back, his mouth open to shout a warning – then slumped back against the stone, a dagger in his throat. Altaïr watched unblinking as Maximilian's hand fell to his side, a cold prickle of sweat forming between his shoulder blades, the heightened sense of an assassin naming the man before him as a predator, a killer, birds of a feather. No. Worse: Maximilian's expression had not changed, nor had Altaïr seen any telltale flickers in his cold eyes, had not seen him draw and throw the dagger.

"It seems that this indeed is neither the time nor place," Maximilian said urbanely, stalking over the jerk his blade from the twitching body and wipe it clean on the guard's sleeve. "But someday you'll not have the fortune to escape my reach." His lopsided smile was not fully in jest.

memory block.17

"You are in poor spirits," Malik said, when Altaïr returned to Masyaf and handed him the bloodied feather. Leadership appeared to have focused the one-armed assassin, channeled his passion into his talent for cautious detail and fed his strong innate intuition, made him mellower. It was Malik who had guessed, and all from a handful of incoherent clues, of Al Mualim's betrayal, Malik who had reorganized the disorganized and disillusioned assassins, who sought to hide the Piece of Eden, who had now taken over all the severed strands of authority and reforged them back into their weave. The fact of freedom aside, Altaïr could not have done that; had not the mentality nor discipline nor patience to organize on such a level – and besides, many of the brotherhood still resented him.

"Ennui chafes, Master." Altaïr lied smoothly, kept his expression carefully blank as Malik winced at the honorific.

He had looked for Maximilian briefly after his mission, had been somewhat annoyed with himself for even doing so, and had been even more annoyed when he had been unable to find so much as a strand of russet hair or discern what the spymaster's business in Jerusalem had _been_.

"Ah, but there are no missions of date for your caliber," Malik sounded slightly apologetic. "There is another piece of Eden in the Holy Land – that much we know – but the rest are beyond our reach, over the seas, and I am not quite certain we should pry further into such affairs."

"That does not concern me," Altaïr said, more brusquely than he intended, certainly enough for Malik to pick up on his tension.

"You tarried two days in Jerusalem after your mission." At Altaïr's frown, Malik smiled wryly. "One of the informants whose life you saved returned to Masyaf before you extolling your 'kindness' and 'skill'."

"There were some rumors I wished to follow. They were groundless."

"Assassin you may be but you have never managed the art of dissemblance, Altaïr," Malik said, turning to take a leather-bound book from the shelves, opening it on the table, turning its yellow, crackling pages. "You are aware, mayhap, of a man known as Maximilian de Mércer?"

Malik was watching him too carefully. Altaïr felt a chill settle, a cold sweat prickling at his neck, and his hesitation was too long. Masyaf's Master bowed his head. "Al Mualim knew. And he has… kept records of all of us, in his books."

"He never mentioned-"

"Likely because he thought it useful to let matters continue. As do I. I tell you this now only because I do not wish there to be further secrets harbored only by Masyaf's Master." Malik said firmly, closing the book. "Though it is an odd friendship."

Altaïr let out the breath he had not realized he had been holding. "The man is obsessed with bladework. Occasionally he wishes to test himself against a better opponent. Also," and here, his irritation was unfeigned, "He and his Master seem to think me amusing."

"Why did you never mention this to Al Mualim?"

Altaïr thought the question over carefully, had to edge around the answer. "I have few friends outside the order. I did not see it any of his business. Certainly the one known as Maximilian seems to have little interest in Masyaf."

"And Al Mualim would never have known were it not for the day he saved you from drowning." Malik said, with a shrug. "Strange man, to risk himself so. Surely it would have seen untoward even to his people."

Exposure and ruin. Altaïr had not thought it so of the gesture; had thought it a mere whim. But then – and this he knew – Maximilian did not e'er act on _mere whim_. He managed a faint, thin smile, even as confusion settled inexorably in his mind and threatened to give him a headache. "The man is strange. That much is true. I encountered him in Jerusalem, as you have no doubt heard. He would tell me nothing of his business, and I could not find him afterwards."

Malik placed the book back in the shelves. "Then perhaps your ennui is better assuaged in Acre, Altaïr." And _there_, a fleeting smirk, which told him that _this_ Master's intuition was far clearer than the last's.

memory block.18

Maximilian was not in the sandalwood room, nor had his closemouthed staff (who lurked on the first floor) seen him for days. Disappointed and somewhat unnerved by experiencing said latter emotion, Altaïr pestered Rafik, the long-suffering Acre Bureau Chief, for a day, was sent on a few menial local missions, and eventually left the city, much to Rafik's relief.

memory block.25

Altaïr allowed his steed to slow to a trot, out of sight of the arrow towers, the gravel of the ravine crunching in a steady rhythm under steel-shod hooves. It was a hot day, even for the Holy Land, and he was not so cruel as to run his horse headlong from Masyaf to Jerusalem. Richard seemed headed for Ashkelon, and the war seemed indeterminable, the vultures flocking to its wake numerous despite their blades. It did, however, mean that the soldiers left to guard were thinning, as Richard's ambition grew.

_And_ he had seen neither hide nor hair of Maximilian, not since Jerusalem, and it was beginning to worry him (which annoyed him), and as such, to take his mind off matters, he was engaged in his favorite pastime: hunting Templars. There were reports of a few knights scattered on the road to Ashkelon, mayhap on the way to Richard's aid, easy pickings for assassins.

The gleam of white against the edge of a haystack and the silver of a mail boot in the shadow of a hut caused the assassin to dismount noiselessly, padding slowly towards the building. The soldier's charger was grazing a distance away, against the edge of the cliff face, incurious, and Altaïr began to bare his teeth subconsciously into a snarl, silent as he circled, then he caught a glance of the 'Templar's' face, and swore, straightening.

"Such language," Maximilian murmured, though he smirked, comfortable and sprawled on the hay. The spymaster looked somewhat the worse for wear; there was a fresh, pink scar against his cheek, and his right arm was in a cast slung against his chest. What Altaïr had mistaken for a Templar's surcoat had been a scholar's robes, though Maximilian wore a haphazard assortment of armor: mail gloves, boots and greaves only.

"How?" Altaïr frowned at the injury. He knew better now than to ask Maximilian about the 'coincidence' of their encounters. Little that involved the spymaster _was_ coincidence.

"Stupidity. Mostly mine." Maximilian's tone brooked no further investigation.

"Further idiocy, to wander about alone in your condition." Altaïr's own tone brooked no argument, but Maximilian merely grinned, half-lidding his cold eyes. "Are you joining your King at Ashkelon?"

"I have news to bear him, 'tis all." Maximilian said, not bothering to engage in his usual banter, as though the man was _weary_. Altaïr could tell that the pain from his injury was tightly under control, but it still hardened his eyes, and the spymaster seemed a little paler than normal. He circled over and sat down on the hay, sinking onto the bristles, hesitated, then leant over the other man to press his lips awkwardly against a parting mouth, careful not to touch the cast. When he pulled away, somewhat embarrassed, Maximilian drawled, "Missed me?"

Altaïr glared at him, glanced away pointedly, felt the spymaster shake against his thigh in his silent laugh. "Why did you save me from drowning?"

"Why not?" Amusement.

"You could have sent another."

"You were sinking fairly quickly."

"The Master… that is to say, Al Mualim discovered…"

"I knew he would." Maximilian yawned. "Do not glare so. Would you rather I let you die for the sake of my personal convenience?"

"I do not understand you," Altaïr said finally, as the silence stretched. Maximilian did not answer, settling deeper into the hay, closing his eyes. "Maximilian."

"I could teach you how to swim," the spymaster crossed his legs languidly.

Altaïr recalled _drowning_, the hands, and had to suppress a shudder. "It is not necessary." Another long pause, broken only by the whickers of their horses, grazing, the shriek of a bird, high above. "Thank you."

"Mm." Maximilian made a noncommittal sound that instantly annoyed him. Scowling, Altaïr moved to straddle his waist, unbuckling the scabbard at his hip, knew the spymaster would be watching him with that damned irritating _smirk_ on his lips. Buckles, leather, cowls, boots and jerkins: he'd stripped to his undershirt and breeches by the time Maximilian _reacted_, rolling his hips, and Altaïr pushed back, his eyes angry, _frustrated_, still damned _confused_ about this sensation of inevitability. He plucked briefly at Maximilian's shirt, pulled back his fingers at the nearly imperceptible wince of pain, settled for another kiss, instead, this one more confident, biting the spymaster hard on his lower lip when he chuckled.

"Damnation on you," Altaïr whispered, when he pulled back, wondered if Maximilian knew _why_, knew _what_, but the man was smirking again, the pink of his tongue pressed against the reddened mark Altaïr's teeth had left on his lip. Belt, breeches: he pulled the spymaster's breeches to his knees with impatient jerks, then removed his fingerless gloves and his bracers, the clink of the hidden knife loud on the hilt of his sword, and the first hand he used to stroke firming flesh was his left; the spymaster's eyes grew cloudy with lust at the rasp of the long-healed scar of the stump of his finger. Still he said nothing.

Altaïr took the small jar of wounds salve he kept with himself always in his sash, swiped his fingers through it, tried his best not to look at Maximilian as he stroked it over the waiting prick, shrugged away fingers on his elbow and smirked when the spymaster moaned, bucking into the pressure, kept his stroking slow, almost teasing. He had never been this forward himself, preferring to let Maximilian lead, preferred the excuse of persistence that that gave him. When Altaïr finally stripped himself of confining breeches, Maximilian levered himself up onto his uninjured elbow.

"Turn around, I-"

"It is not necessary," Altaïr said, surprised how husky his own tone was, _lustful_, wondered when matters had come to such a pass, that he was enjoying how another man's expression was changing from disbelief to amusement to lust, as he slicked his fingers further, arched back with a hand over Maximilian's knee, grit his teeth as he pushed the first callused digits into himself. A breath, another, another inch (God, it had not felt like so _long_), and Maximilian had his hand on his thigh, stroking up to close over his flagging prick, stroking it skillfully back to attention as the spymaster lay back, licking his lips.

"When I am recov…" the rest of Maximilian's promise ceded to a hiss, as Altaïr gingerly lowered himself, grit his teeth against the pain as thick flesh pushed past the circle of muscle pushed himself _down_, slowly, inch by inch, breathing hard, now, focused on the bruising grip of Maximilian's hand on his hip, over the slow growing burn of familiar agony, the sun too hot over his shoulders and under his short-cropped hair, the scents of the scorched hay and the grass and the warm animal flesh of horses. He _tried_, but Maximilian's gaze arrested him, his cold eyes startlingly molten, now, his want palpable, as Altaïr arched back, _filled_, his own prick ignored on the spymaster's belly, _waiting_.

He moved once he began to relax, impatient, ignoring the bared grin from the man beneath him, rocking his hips, _taking_ him, controlling their rhythm, the assassin's hands fisted tight in the hay beside Maximilian's ribs, his breathing short and stuttered. Altaïr's moan was forced from behind clenched teeth only when the spymaster _shifted_, angled, pushed upwards, stroked _there_ within him, and Altaïr snapped his hips down, _harder_, sweating in his undershirt, unable now to recognize the almost animal panting noises from his throat as he took his pleasure (and _God_, this was _good_), almost _whined_ as fingers brushed his belly and slipped down to stroke him in sharp jerks, slicking the evidence of his own want over his skin, each squeeze sweet torture. And Maximilian was cursing again, in his low diatribe of broken French that told Altaïr that the spymaster was already close: the jibe choked in his throat around the next moan, and Altaïr cried out instead as Maximilian thrust hard, up against him, emptying himself with a snarl. A callused thumb flicked up against his own weeping slit, and Altaïr shattered, shaking, ecstasy stealing the strength from his arms and the words from his throat.

Altaïr took the waterskin and cloth from Maximilian's mount, afterwards, and cleaned them both as much as he was able, ignoring the sated smirk the other man wore as he helped him dress. He knew the spymaster was waiting for him to leave, or to say something brusque about being expected, and hid his grin when Maximilian blinked as Altaïr settled on the hay beside him instead, pillowing his head on a shoulder with a yawn, felt the tension in the panther leach slowly into a deep purr, fingers splaying absently down his back. It would be a long road for Maximilian to Ashkelon; above, the eagle turned its own way, upwards against the lattice of Heaven.

-fin-


End file.
